Make Believe
by Ghost Whisper
Summary: Nothing ever changed, however much he pretended.' Some things happen as inevitable, no matter how much they are ignored. Hisokacentric, vaguely surreal.


**AN:** So, here's my newest story - and I really really hope that I managed to convey the idea that I was trying for. --;; Spell checking has been done, but if anyone sees something I missed, please let me know.

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The sun is shining brightly above him, lighting his hair up golden like a halo, but he pretends not to notice. The heady warmth of the day has little meaning to him. The crowds surrounding him have little meaning also, but the press of bodies tight up against him leaves him with little choice but to notice. There's a certain smell in the air – pollution and commingled sweat of bodies most likely – that rises up all around to embrace the world in the proof of life.

His crisp white shirt, carefully ironed, sticks to his chest. Reaching up, he brushes callused fingers against the collar and pinches them together, pulling the fabric away from dampened skin. It had been clean that morning – fresh with the scent of laundry detergent and fabric softener.

Feet tapping a steady cadence on the cement of the sidewalk, he waits for the traffic lights to change – waits for the signal of safety that lets him cross over to the other side.

Not that it really matters.

A brief thought that makes him wince away, as he envisions the bright silver car now driving by, glinting with the light of the sun, blinding him with glare, and striking his body down. He envisions imaginary screams and the sticky wet smell of blood dripping out of a cut on his shoulder, and the way it drips onto the road beneath his shattered body, too thick to evaporate in the heat of the day.

It's a morbid thought. He's been trying to break away from them for so long, telling himself that it's twisted and wrong. Unworthy. Unclean. Sometimes they sneak up on him without warning though, and that's the danger. That's when the fragile sense of normality comes crashing down, leaving him with gritted teeth and clenched fists that ache to strike out at the dirty memories.

"Move it kid." The muttered grunt strikes him as almost amusing, and he quickly steps to the side, absorbing the push that would have sent him toppling to the ground to be trampled under the flood of people waiting to cross the street.

The traffic lights have changed then. Silly, for getting so absorbed in his thoughts. He's getting almost as absent minded as…

He moves forward with the press of the crowd, not wanting to be left behind. He hates to have to wait for things like that. Twenty steps to go, and he has to make it before green signals again. A deep breath, and he unconsciously absorbs the feel of the world around him; irritation, impatience, boredom…a hint of love – or maybe lust. It's lust he realizes, with a bitter smirk. Strong enough the he can draw it off the crowd around him, and almost taste it. A man going home to his mistress. There's no love.

Funny that he would have forgotten that already.

Two more steps, and he steps up onto the slightly raised curb of the sidewalk, safely ensconced on the other side with all the other people. A suitcase jabs into his leg, just below the left knee, and he shifts uncomfortably, trying to pull away from the intrusion. Within seconds, a large number of the people have dispersed, and others are heading in his direction, lining up to cross the street again. He should get out of there before it is once more too crowded to move.

Less then a block away, there's a small park; the remnant of life amidst towers of gray stone and steel and smoke. He heads towards in like a horse in the desert towards an oasis, eager to breath in the fauna scented air that slightly blocks out the stink of pollution.

Low hanging tree branches brush against his shoulders, and he ducks out of the way, eyes fixed on the empty bench a short distance away. He's eager to sit down and relax for a moment, pretend that he's in some great forest a continent away, exploring and meeting the shamans of tribes who hold ceremonies for the dead. It's not a very original thought.

But fantasies were never his forte anyways.

"Mister? Mister, your hair is pretty – are you gaijin?" A little girl has walked up to stand in front of his knees, eyes blinking up prettily at him, her hair pulled away from her face by a soft pink ribbon.

His fingers scrape against the bench at the question, and he bites his lip as a sliver of wood catches in one. Her mother is running up to the little girl, and looks horrified. Obviously, she's heard the tale end of the question.

"No," he answers her succinctly. "I'm Japanese, but my mother wasn't." His tone is flat, but not unkind, and the little girl leans closer to him, her elbows pressing into his knees.

"Was she pretty? I think you're very pretty, so your mama must have been too!"

"Emiko! I've told you not to talk to strangers – and so rudely too!" The woman's lips pinch together, and she gathers her daughter tightly up into her arms. The pink ribbon slips out of the girl's hair at the sudden motion, and he leans down to pick it up, the soft fabric trailing across his fingers like a caress.

"But mama – look at his hair!"

The woman's eyes flick to his air, and then drift away uncomfortably. "That's no excuse. I want you to apologize immediately."

"I'm sorry – but your hair is pretty!" The girl adds the last words in defiantly with all the naiveté of the young. Her mother looks about to retort, and apologize herself, but he breaks in, handing the ribbon back to a surprised looking mother.

"It's okay," he says quietly. "My mother was quite beautiful – but I think you're lucky to have your mother." He bows, ignoring the flush on the woman's face, and walks away.

The park has lost its appeal.

He wanders for a while, drifting in and out of the world like a ghost that's only half there, flinching away from half-touches by unconscious passers by. There's a store nearby, and he enters it without any real interest, picking up products from time to time, and turning them over halfheartedly.

A package of cookies is examined, and dropped carelessly back on the shelf. He could buy them but he's not really hungry, and the only other person…

He exits the aisle, turning the corner into the next one. Rows of magazines face him, brightly colored pictures a mosaic against the large glass window facing the street outside. He doesn't read magazines though – has always been more of a book person. He only bothered trying to read one once, when he found it laying around at work by…

Shaking his head, he ignores reading material for now. There's a strong urge to leave the shop and start running; to feel his breath cycling through lungs in gasps, pulling life into his body, and leaving behind…what?

He could leave it behind, but it's never seemed to work. Always intruding on him with thoughts of bleeding, morbid thoughts that he doesn't want to admit too, pessimistic thoughts, where he's never a part of the world, always distant, always dead to everyone around him, because…

"Hisoka!" The happily chirped words break across the atmosphere of the shop, which had been lazy and held in a state where nothing would change.

Something has changed.

Something has never changed.

"Hisoka, we were supposed to meet at the bakery across the street at lunch time – not at this store! Did you forget?" Tsuzuki looks concerned for a moment, but Hisoka's grunt and quick growl of idiot makes him bounce back into his cheerful self. "Ne ne – Hisoka forgot something! I have to tell Watari!" His partner jumps forward, slinging an arm around Hisoka's shoulders. Hisoka doesn't flinch as he normally might – Tsuzuki is just being Tsuzuki, as he always will.

He turns green eyes upwards to his partners face, studying the ageless lines of cheekbones and chin; pondering the eyes which are bright with happiness, masking pain for something that happened a century ago.

"Hisoka?" Tsuzuki is gazing at him questioningly now, the light in his eyes dimmed somewhat. "Did something happen? Did you find a clue for-"

He waves a hand dismissively, interrupting what might have been the beginnings of a worried ramble. "I'm fine," he mutters, turning his eyes away from concerned amethyst. "Nothing happened."

Which is true. Nothing did happen. Nothing changed, no matter all his pretending.

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